Salty Sky Page 9

  “In a normal field day, we’d take the helicopter out, set down in the middle of the field, take a couple of sling blades, and whack the plants down. We’d spray commercial-grade Roundup everywhere, hop back on the bird, and find the next unnaturally cultivated pot plot.”

  “Did you ever surprise people? Did they ever put up a fight?”

  “Sometimes. But there were usually a lot of us carrying a lot of guns, and they just wanted to disappear into the woods before they got arrested. Also, because I was the pilot, I was the last out of the bird, and any action was over before I’d unhitched my seat belt.”

  Seizing on the comment about Roundup as an opener, Dan launched into a story about Roundup, gasoline, yellow jackets, and yelling “fire in the hole.” Mrs. Julep’s hand grasped Cale’s knee as she tried to gain control of her laughter. Cale briefly wondered whether Mr. Julep was drawn to her by her good sense of humor or the warm firm grip of her long fingers, but mainly, he relived a mission her questions had inadvertently brought to mind.

  THE DOORS WERE open and the engine off. Sweat soaked Cale’s cotton clothing. He retraced his preflight and mission checklists. The mental distraction lessened his urge to unlace his right boot and dig fingernails into the itchy skin he couldn’t reach with his pencil’s eraser. Afternoon boredom had obliterated the morning’s adrenaline.

  Radio reports from other teams informed the agents that four suspects stood beside four white pickups at the intersection of two county roads. A few miles from the road, through woods at the lake’s edge, additional suspects awaited a delivery. One sat on a three-wheel ATV with an empty large rear basket. The other rested on a Jet Ski in the shallow water. No change had been reported in over two hours.

  Cale visualized the six men: denim overalls despite the heat, sleeveless Rusty Wallace T-shirts, a few impressive mullets. He figured even odds the guy on the Jet Ski was wearing cut-off jean shorts.

  A sharp voice came over the air, “This is Alpha team. We have visual on a small plane flying low coming out of the south. Over.”

  “This is HQ. Roger that. We see it. Hold your positions. Over.”

  Nothing to report from Bravo team. Bravo sat in a small, circular clearing in the woods. Around the circle’s perimeter, undergrowth had taken advantage of the sunlight and had grown thick and tangled. Beyond the perimeter, the forest was hardwoods, with a few old pines that had not yet been crowded out. The radio report jolted everyone to attention.

  “This is HQ. Looks like the plane will be on the water in two minutes. The men at the trucks have seen the plane. One is now on his CB. Over.”

  “This is Alpha. Roger that. Visual on suspect on the three-wheeler. He has picked up his CB. Over.”

  Unconsciously, the teammates leaned forward to absorb the information. They shifted the placement of their hands on their firearms into ready position.

  “This is HQ. Roger that. The plane is below our line of site. Alpha, do you have a visual? Over.”

  “This is Alpha. Roger that. The plane has touched down on the water. The Jet Ski is approaching. Looks like they have more to unload than can happen in one run. Over.”

  “This is HQ. Roger that. Alpha, report when the plane is unloaded or the three-wheeler starts to move. Whichever is first. Over.”

  “This is Alpha. Roger that. Jet Ski is taking two duffel bags to shore. The pilot set two more duffels on the pontoon. Pilot is in the cockpit looking anxious to leave. I think this will be the last trip. Over.”

  The pseudomilitary radio chatter’s rhythmic, repeated refrains always reminded Cale of biblical poetry, if you substituted “Roger that” for “and it was good.”

  “This is HQ. Roger that. With four duffels and four trucks, we need to modify plans. These could be three decoys and one real McCoy. We are unprepared to track in four directions.”

  “Bravo team, proceed to the crossroads. Lock down the pickups before the three-wheeler arrives to offload. Alpha team, walk from the lake up the trail toward the pickups behind the three-wheeler. Your goal is to keep the three-wheeler from backtracking into the woods. We have alerted the FAA to track the plane. We’ll have somebody in the air out of Charlotte in five minutes. At a minimum, we’ll photograph the plane and get its call sign. For the perp on the water, if his friends don’t turn him in, it’s his lucky day. Copy. Over.”

  “This is Alpha. Roger that. Leaving position to backfill trail. Over.”

  Although he was not the head of Bravo team, he was the pilot, and, in this case, that trumped seniority. Cale clicked in. “This is Bravo. Roger that. Starting engines. Proceeding to crossroads. Over.”

  The bird fired up. A rush of hot air blew from the air conditioning vents and pushed the sweat off Cale’s nose and into his eyes. The big props circulation elevated the team gently. The takeoff lacked the muscular effort that jumbo jet passengers feel as their plane’s engines dig for the required speed on a runway of limited length. Cale slipped on sunglasses as they rose above tree-dappled light into full sun. He flew less than five hundred feet off the ground—low enough to be difficult to spot but high enough to adapt to the topographic changes.

  The stealth advantage desired from the low altitude flight required line-of-sight steering. The horizon provided a series of landmarks that directed the flight path. Cale progressed through them until he locked in on the two roads that stretched away from the forest. A visual on the intersection of the roads was hidden by the tree canopy. He felt confident that he could guesstimate the intersection’s location within a hundred yards or so. The mission’s rehearsals never included this scenario. Cale tried to picture where to set the bird down and what obstacles he’d find beyond a bunch of startled guys with guns.

  The road grew larger behind the tree canopy, and he began shedding altitude. As the bird crested the forest’s edge, the trucks were suddenly directly below. Cale skillfully swiveled the bird in a tight circle and descended. On landing, the blades’ spun within ten feet of the two trucks.

  The three passengers jumped out as the skids settled on the ground. Quickly, the Bravo team forced two suspects to the ground. The other two suspects backed to the wood’s edge, then took off running, roughly north, along the side of the road, presumably looking for a place to cut into the woods. Two agents took off after the fleeing men. The Bravo team lead knelt into the back of each prone man and cuffed their wrists. Given the mayhem, Cale shut down the chopper and stepped out to help. Another improvisation.

  When the chopper’s noise and wind diminished, Cale heard the whine of the ATV moving through the woods. He glanced at the running agents. They were over a hundred yards away and still going. He was surprised; four grown men went straight into a dead sprint, and nobody pulled a hamstring. The Bravo team lead had rolled one of the handcuffed men onto his back, putting his right leg adjacent to the other suspect’s right leg. With one suspect’s right knee facing up and one suspect’s right knee facing down, the agent zip-tied the pair’s legs tightly together. This awkward position made it almost impossible for them to travel any distance if they had to be left unguarded. The Bravo team leader now also heard the ATV and locked eyes with Cale, who was waiting to assist.

  “Coleman, get onto the trail and force the ATV to stop or turn back toward Alpha team.”

  Cale was ready to help but wondered why he was going after the ATV with just a sidearm while the man with the intimidating long-stock semiautomatic guarded two tied-up guys. As Cale entered the woods, he took off his sunglasses and clumsily stuffed them into his pants pocket.

  The combustion engine’s noise increased as the distance between Cale and the ATV decreased. He ran at three quarters speed into the woods. Thirty seconds into the woods, he saw a confluence farther down the trail where three trails joined to form the one he was on. Which trail was the ATV on? Did it matter?

  It didn’t. What mattered was getting to that trident’s confluence. If he stopped him here, the suspect would U-turn out a different trail, negating Alpha team.
Without the chopper airborne, it would also be impossible to track him in the maze of hills and trees. Cale sprinted toward the confluence, but as he approached, he realized the fallacy of his logic. This was probably not the only intersection, just the last intersection. He needed to prevent the ATV driver from making the U-turn.

  Cale backed up to the trident’s handle and found a white oak that split into two large trunks on the trail’s edge. He searched the nearby underbrush and found a decent-size limb with small branches and dead leaves still attached. He dragged the limb onto the trail just after the white oak. He didn’t use a log, because the suspect likely went down this path in the morning, and the sight of a new log would be suspicious enough to trip the driver’s dormant survival alarms. A new branch was just a nuisance.

  Playing hide and seek, Cale braced himself four feet off the ground between the trunks in the white oak. His right foot settled in the bottom of the V. He checked to make sure it wouldn’t stick when it was time to move. He put his left foot partway up a trunk, bending his hip and knee to fit it in place. He deemed himself sufficiently invisible from the trails. The sound of the motor grew. His breath slowed like it used to before the snap of a ball.

  The engine’s sound changed as the driver laid off the accelerator. Would he stop and move the sticks or slow down and ride over them? The engine revved slightly; he was still feeding it gas. Looked like only a slowdown.

  Finally, the front wheel was in view. Cale dove. The ATV was moving faster than he had anticipated. He extended himself as if the landing would be on water. His right hand caught the back of the driver’s hair—one more reason to appreciate the timeless mullet. The suspect was pulled backward off the three-wheeler. Cale turned his own body enough in the air to land on his shoulder instead of on his belly. The driver landed on his back and rolled into a crouch. Both men gasped for oxygen after the hard landing.

  The driver took off into the woods in a crouched stagger. Cale popped onto his feet and tried not to wobble as he started his pursuit. Five steps in, he stopped. He had the goods and the driver’s partners—surely, they would roll over and identify him. Cale doubted the ATV driver was the evil mastermind behind the operation. Did it matter if he somehow eluded capture?

  So he let him go, walked back, and climbed onto the three-wheeler, which had decelerated unharmed in the middle of the trail. Sitting astride the machine, he put his hand on the throttle and, for the first time, noticed the fistful of long blonde hair clinched in his palm.

  IN THE PARKING lot, the marines and passengers from the Whaler played cornhole while the night crowd arrived beach style: the men in golf shirts, khakis, deck shoes, and even a few clean shaves. The women wore sundresses and makeup and carried clutches. The day crowd holdovers stood out with their T-shirts, shorts, cover-ups, flip-flops, red faces, loud voices, and glassy eyes. The Natural Light Mom and her coworker that Cale had brought over from Masonboro were still in bikinis and enjoying a considerable amount of attention. Cale caught the waitress’s attention and bought them bar-branded T-shirts in case they got cold or were overcome by a sudden desire for modesty.

  The big Ferretti that was anchored off Masonboro lit up the channel, heading north, hugging the starboard side, and running faster than Cale felt it should. Its wake pounded the boat slips as it passed. Cale growled, waiting for the waves to roll into the Whaler. The boat’s bass overpowered the bar’s music a hundred yards off. The big boat cut speed and turned to port. As it approached the dock, it pointed back to the north. The captain let the helm go and stepped to the side rail. He used a joystick to control the bow thrusters and rear props. As the captain kept the stern a foot off the dock, the two Tommy Bahamas and three bodybuilders in black T-shirts hopped onto the dock.

  The Bahamas and Jerseyites grabbed drinks at the bar. Van caught a Bahama’s eyes, and they exchanged waves and smiles. The bar’s TV was changed to the Yankees game. The Bahamas leaned against the bar and looked at menus. The mastiffs hovered behind them, then walked toward the cornhole game. Blake and a flybridge girl sat canoodling on a masonry wall. When one of the Jerseyites noticed the pair, his posture changed; f-bombs and Italian f-bombs exploded.

  The girl looked puzzled at the verbal attack. The f-bomber grabbed her arm and pulled her up. Blake stood and then one meaty hand pushed him backward over the wall.

  The Whaler passengers and the marines started to react, and the exchange grew noisy. Cale excused himself and scurried toward the confusion. He knifed through the crowd and inserted himself between the big man and the girl’s body. The big man squeezed her arm tighter. Cale shook his head slowly side to side as he looked into the eyes of the enormous younger man.

  Being in the open would be better. Being this close to the beast made Cale uncomfortable. There was less chance for bad luck in an open space. Fortunately, the big man was proving a typical bully, incapable of envisioning a scenario where he’d find a worthy adversary. The bar crowd quieted. Metallica now played clearly in the background. Cale wondered when Metallica changed from fringe metal into acceptable background music.

  The men’s eyeballs stayed a foot apart. Cale was curious. When would the big man release the girl’s arm? Was he smart enough to put the girl between them before he did?

  One of the Bahamas, whom Cale had tracked in his peripheral vision, stepped between the two men and peeled the Jerseyite’s hand from the girl’s arm by turning his thumb outward.

  The Bahama finished leashing the black T-shirt with one hand and thumbed out $1,000 from a large cash clip pulled from his shirt pocket with the other. The Bahama handed the cash to the flybridge goddess, who had squeezed in beside him, whispered something to her, and returned to the bar with one hand dragging the black T-shirt with him.

  Maybe he was the Don. Don Bahama was a silly name, though. Cale guessed the flybridge girls now wouldn’t finish their cruise. He definitely heard the words hotel and fly in the whisper. What a tragedy for someone with that appearance and smile to live the kind of life she had settled for. The Bahamas and the bodybuilders headed to the far side of the bar’s deck.

  The forty-five seconds of conflict sucked the life out of the cornhole game. Blake and Van decided to take the girls—with whom Cale still hadn’t exchanged names—clubbing. The goddess the Bahama handed the money to was so stunning that Cale wasn’t sure he could get his name out if she asked. Of course, as Sherpa, stevedore, and bodyguard, he was just here to work, so no worries. He stepped into a new role as tour guide and walked the group to the turnout, where a taxi waited. Van keyed Cale’s address into his phone’s map function before hopping into the backseat.

  Now that he was walking alone, the heat and lack of breeze on the road made Cale head back to the waterfront, and a small marina’s sailboats drew him down the gangway. He loved sailing. Well, loved the idea of sailing. Flapping sails, swinging booms, and rope burns killed the actual love of sailing. He did like being at anchor, though. Or even tied up to the dock. Maybe he liked camping.

  The gangway had knee-high louvered lights. They did a great job illuminating everything below ankle height. Each boat slip had hose water, drinking water, and shore power. All of the boats appeared to be less than fifty feet. Most were docked stern-to. It was a mid- but rising tide, and the lines were slack. A forty-eight-foot trimaran occupied the end slip. The boat’s technology was mind-blowing, unrecognizable to a sailor of fifty years ago. Automatic reefing systems for mainsail and genny. Pointing and spinning antennas for the GPS. Other electronic systems that he couldn’t identify also covered the masthead. A sailor could empirically know the weather, depth, tides, wind speed, and fish location. Yep. Probably a real-time Bloomberg console too.

  The trimaran’s red and green running lights were off. It was named Tri Again. Home port: Hamilton, Bermuda. Big taxes registering a boat in Bermuda. Canvas and steering were controlled from the center cockpit. Currently, it was snapped tight. Soloing the Atlantic on Tri Again seemed reasonable. The journey might not be fun, b
ut Cale knew he’d enjoy the anchorage in Spain.

  He wasn’t sure whether he felt or heard the footsteps on the gangway, but something made him turn in time to see the Jerseyite who’d grabbed the flybridge girl. He was peeling off his shirt and setting it on a white fiberglass dock locker thirty yards away. He emptied his beer’s contents on the dock. Shame on him, Cale thought, wasting beer that way.

  They locked eyes. The Jerseyite growled, “I don’t want your redneck blood on my shirt or any beer splashed on me.”

  You see, those invariably unintimidating and unwitty comments were why Cale didn’t speak before an altercation. The scariest pre-altercation stance he’d seen was a silent twenty-one-year-old Mike Tyson staring down his woofing opponent while getting the referee’s instructions. No referee tonight, but Cale doubted this would last the ninety seconds it took a young Iron Mike to dispatch his opponents.

  “You want to swim? Might cut youse-self on the barnacles. Youse might find them real sharp when you’re scrambling around. Might be your best option. Of course, I’ll greet youse when you come to shore, so you might have barnacle cuts and still need a new face. Without fifteen friends and a hundred witnesses around, youse look like you want to mind your own business. Why so quiet? Too scared to cry uncle?”

  He spit the word uncle like it was distasteful.

  Quite the monologue. Cale was tempted to deliver an equally long response. Maybe the Gettysburg Address? Four score and seven years ago, our fathers … Or perhaps Mark Antony’s speech at Caesar’s funeral. Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears, for we come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. But he figured the humor would be lost on his audience. Probably the historic and literary references as well.

  The big man rolled his neck side to side. He circled his shoulders. He shook out his arms. Maybe he was here to do calisthenics.

  Cale watched the empty beer bottle in the Jerseyite’s right hand. He cupped the bottle’s neck in the webbing between his index finger and thumb. Cale knew the big man would be better off throwing a straight punch than swinging a roundhouse with the bottle at the side of his head. The bottle would hurt a lot less than knuckles to the chin and provided more time for Cale to move or block. He chose not to share the advice.